I spent a few hours with my mom this afternoon. She’s 98 and in a state of cognitive decline. Her home is a memory care facility. Her hearing isn’t great and it’s more difficult for her to get around. But underneath it all, she’s still my mom.
My mother and I have always been inordinately close, mostly for survival. Some would call it co-dependent and they wouldn’t be wrong. As I mentioned, we called it survival. I will leave it at that. Home life wasn’t easy for many years. It left its mark on each of us; each of us is uniquely aware of what we suffered and how it’s stayed with us these many decades.
There are moments of clarity for her but they are less and less frequent. My personality has always been humor-oriented. I like to laugh and to make others laugh. I was a quirky kid and did funny things, though I wasn’t deliberately trying to be funny. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drummer in many ways.
Today marks my 68th year. As an empath who feels things exceedingly deeply, I can’t say it’s always a good day. Along with many days, it’s mostly bittersweet. For decades two individuals helped me keep my train on the tracks. They understood me at my deepest level, they understood the depth of my emotions, they understood my daily struggle to stay afloat. For the past few years, I’ve been navigating without them. It’s been difficult. They can’t help me now but my memories of them do, to some extent.
My longtime love left this world over four years ago. Things have never been the same. I miss his steady presence, his sound advice, and the fact that he thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. He chose to see who I am at my core. Both he and my mom watched me travel the hills and valleys of mental health challenges for more than four decades. They saw how hard I fought, they saw my struggles, they saw what it takes away from me daily. And yet, they loved me just as fiercely. I hold those memories closely when people choose not to see who I really am.
Today, there was a shaft of sunlight that poked through the haze of my mother’s thoughts. It was a gift I didn’t know I wanted. My mom looked at me with her tired blue eyes, a soft smile on her face, and she said, “I’ve always seen you through a different lens than anyone else. You’re always my kind, sweet girl who brought laughter to our home.” Flabbergasted, I struggled to maintain my feelings. We were sitting in a large room where staff and other residents were milling about.
I laughed and said, “you have to say that because you’re my mother.” I don’t do emotion in public. She looked at me in earnest. “I’ve always recognized you were special and I hope you never change.” Then she patted my hand. “I’m so proud to be your mother.”
Well, knock me over with a feather. I’m now releasing the emotion that resulted from these statements. Her words are a gift I can’t begin to quantify. My tears will turn to ugly crying shortly. They are the tears of of loss, the tears of joy, the tears of what will never be again. But they’re my tears and I earned every single one. May they continue to be a source of comfort among my memories.
And recently I discovered this fabulous piece of writing by Aariv Jah. He put my feelings on paper. I wish the individual who needs to read this would see it. But I doubt he will, too mired in his own head. Someone could pass along the suggestion. Bear with me, it’s lengthy but so, so good.
“Maybe one day you’ll understand that I was never trying to argue or prove myself right. I was just trying to explain what was hurting inside me. I wanted you to listen —- not defend yourself, not turn it around, not make me feel like my feelings were too much. I just wanted my feelings to matter to you the way yours mattered to me.
“I wasn’t asking for perfection. I wasn’t asking for grand gestures. Just a little patience. A little understanding. A moment where you chose to understand me instead of trying to be right.
“Because sometimes, all I ever wanted was to feel heard, understood, and [respected]* by you.”
*The original text is “loved.” I chose ‘respected’ because that is my intent.
